Many years ago, in the Mayan capital: a wealthy man is surveying his room of slave-scribes, all of whom have been calculating the calendar into the future. They have no idea why they have been set to this task, but their lot is not to question. It is tedious work, but full of mysteries; no one quite understands why their master wants a list of all the three-day weekends, for example. SO I CAN PLAN A BARBEQUE, he shouts. What does that mean? Today he strides around the room with his usual imperious swagger, peering at their work, correcting mistakes – one slave put “thanxsquvng” on the second week in November, whatever that was, and he was beheaded on the spot – and when he is done, he asks how far they’ve gotten. He does this every day.

“December 21, 2012” says Tectoquixtal, whose name means “Urine of Jaguar.”

The master nods, as if he expected nothing less, then turns and leaves the room. Tectoquixtal watches him cross the street – and can barely believe his eyes when his master is struck by a spear thrown from the nearby practice range. It catches him in the chest, and he drops without a sound.

Tectoquixtal looks down at his work, the date Dec. 21, 2012, and thinks, well, screw this, then.

That may be as good an explanation as any other, I suppose. I don’t care why the Mayan calendar ends, and have no anxieties. Had not intended to see “2012,” since Emmerich’s movies post- “Independence Day” have been dumber and dumber. (“ID” was implausible enough, but as a big loud action thing, it was fun.) But the child was at a sleepover and my wife wanted to see it, so we went. I was dismayed beyond measure to find out it was 2 hours and 38 minutes long – when you add previews, you’re talking three hours. Sigh. Well.

One of the previews made me cringe: Hugh Grant and either Sarah Jessica-Parker or John Kerry as a couple on the ropes who have to enter witness protection as a married couple. I would rather be tased in a bramblebush than see that. The other movie was “Avatar,” which of course looks great but smacks of another industrial-sophisticated-civilization mean, tree-dwelling dragon-riders noble. We’ll see.

Sensing that audience might have a limited attention span, and wanting to show the movie more than once a day, the theater had cut back on the previews, and that’s fine. Three’s about right. Four makes you annoyed with the fourth one. Five make you want to scream.

Oh, the movie? People are insulating themselves from snob-smack by saying “it’s actually not that bad,” and I understand; I thought the same thing. In retrospect I realize is it AWESOME even if it turns into “The Poseidon Adventure for the last three hours of its 47-hour running time. I don’t mind big noisy stupid things-blow-up movies; I liked the first Transformers, loathed the second, enjoyed ID4, wanted to take an ice pick to everyone involved in “The Day After Tomorrow,” loved the first half of “War of the Worlds,” and so on. “2012” is really “When Worlds Collide” without the other planet, for reasons that are obvious towards the end. The acting isn’t all ham and cheese; the editing isn’t cut-a-second Michael Bay-style retina-jackhammering, and the special effects – well, that’s what we go for. The end of LA is probably the most remarkable piece of urban destruction committed to the screen.

Okay, it’s not awesome. It relies on preposterous coincidences and fortuitous skills, it suffers from Danny Glover who manages to avoid both gravitas and intelligence as the President, it reprises the nail-biting “we’re flying away as the runway is destroyed” idea about three times to many, it wants you to believe that a fully-laden Russian cargo yet can drop into a shallow trench with an airspeed of 6, maybe 7 knots, but still pull up in time to carrying its precious cargo to the third act, and – worst of all – it’s full of moments where people make speeches, emotional speeches, about, you know, emotions, at a time when the clock says SEVEN SECONDS UNTIL AIRBORNE CHUNKS OF HAWAII FALL ON OUR HEADS. Most of the “real” people, the little folk who aren’t part of the government conspiracy, don’t react the way normal people would react. The end of the world has a rather small psychic footprint, it seems.

One of the more irritating things: John Cusack’s character is a sorta-failed guy whose hot wife divorced him and took up with a shallow boob-enhancement doctor, and they have two kids he takes on a camping trip. Anyone want to guess? You, in the back there.

“Uh, a winsome little girl who loves her dad, and a sullen older boy who acts distant and resentful?”

Very good! You’ve seen the movie. Or did you just see “War of the Worlds,” which had the same idea? It’ll be a movie that breaks all the rules when the heroes comprise an intact, stable, well-adjusted family. Could even be a family where dad goes to work at a job and mom stays home with the kids, because I’ve heard that actually happens. (If you’re joining this site late in the game, and want to take me to task for proposing such sexist tripe: I was a stay-at-home dad, and am still the primary bus-picker-upper / drive to karate-piano-choir / make the lunches / etc guy. So chill.) While we’re at it, we’ll know someone’s breaking all the rules when the President is a white guy. Your first thought upon seeing Danny Glover: that’s not the President. Morgan Freeman is the President.

That said, I grew up during the Golden Age of Disaster Movies, and this thing is state of the art. Rather amusing ending, too. Oh, that’s where we’re going? There? Cripes. You can drop me off here, thanks.

That was the weekend, more or less – Friday I did all the updates for the site while listening to old radio (finally found some of Jack Webb’s early comedy show; surprisingly anarchic and almost, err, post-modern in its ridicule of the medium’s conventions), then watched some of Sam Raimi’s “Drag Me to Hell.” Not a big horror fan, but I like Sam Raimi’s patented blend of shocks & gags, and supposedly this was a return to his roots. Perhaps it is; I lost interest. Saturday, the aforementioned movie. Sunday, I did the Minnesota Youth Symphonies concert at Orchestra Hall. Great show. So was the one outside the Hall:

One man sitting on a bucket, singing. Heard him from a block away. He was great.
Twenty-four second video. You can give him that, can’t you? If the video doesn’t play, go HERE.

(Note to anyone using the low-light feature on the Kodak Zi8: turns any shot into ShakyCam.)

Later: Matchbook Monday, of course. See you soon.

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